


Rapture

by eamesish



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eamesish/pseuds/eamesish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames always got everything he wanted in life--well, almost everything. It isn't until one passionate night in Casablanca that he truly has everything, but as his relationship with a certain Point Man deepens, he fears he's gotten into something he can't hope to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Madrid

**Author's Note:**

> I never really have trouble starting fics, but this one has been in my head for months with at least half a dozen beginnings written for it and nothing ever felt right. Last night, however, after I watched Fight Club for the first time (and it was so good oh my god), it just came to me. The beginning has nothing to do with the movie, but I guess it made me feel creative?
> 
> Anyway, yes, I'm so glad to finally be doing this fic. I'm dedicating it to Ash because she really supported me while writing another fic and she likes feeding my ego, so she must be rewarded!!! I hope you like it, doll ;*
> 
> Also, a warning: like I said in the tags, _there will be torture in this fic._ You can skim it, definitely, as it's not all blood and guts, but expect it to happen.
> 
> I'm happy to be going on this journey with you guys. Enjoy!

_Rapture,_ noun: _ ecstatic joy or delight; joyful ecstasy. _

“It's a bit poetic, really,” Eames says one balmy summer morning in Madrid, his feet crossed over a small wood coffee table lazily—which clearly Arthur hasn't noticed yet or he would have said something disapproving—and his fingers shifting through the file he's been given. They're on a job for a wealthy Spanish businessman and it seems the mark hasn't done anything exciting at all ever in the entirety of his life, because Eames is about to curl up and die of boredom from the blandness of his file.

“Mm?” Arthur's not actually listening, but it's a nice gesture.

“Rapture. You can use it to describe intense pleasure, right? But it's also used to described when the Christians ascend to heaven during the apocalypse and that. I imagine it's a bit on purpose, really. You're meant to be all happy that you're being saved from the heinous unbelievers. Of course, then there's the issue of the other side of it—if you're really having that good a time, it's like you're transported to another place. You forget all the little things that are bothering you and just go somewhere _else,_ if only for a little while. I just think it's interesting is all.”

Arthur scrunches his nose and puts down his pen for a moment.

“You're getting all philosophical on me. Should I be worried?” he says, ignoring how thoroughly the other man has glossed over his religious facts for reasons Eames won't ponder because then he might miss the chance to revel in not being lectured.

Eames grimaces. He has, for once, avoided lacing a sentence with sexual connotations—there are so many wonderful things he could do with what he'd just said, but didn't—so Arthur's reaction is expected.

“Perhaps. I read a terribly boring book about the meaning of life on the plane yesterday and I think some of the bullshit has lingered.”

Arthur is clearly going to say something witty when Ariadne interrupts them, sweeping in from outside with her arms full of packages and coffee and those unnecessary little tidbits you know you don't need but always seem to have anyway. Her hair, tousled and wild, is partially tamed with wetness, making Eames look outside.

“It's raining,” he says simply. He hadn't noticed that.

“I thought monsoon season was an Asian thing,” she replies, carefully maneuvering around her bundles of Very Important Articles to set the coffee down beside Eames' feet on the table.

“Feet off the table,” they say simultaneously. Eames sighs, but does as he's bid. One of them will just end up physically forcing him to sit upright and proper if he doesn't, so the fight isn't really worth it. Besides, Arthur's in one of those moods where he's not any fun to annoy.

“How's it then?” Eames asks, eying the packages Ariadne has deposited on the table. He sips his coffee languidly, his lip curling a little at the taste of it. He's always been one for tea, but right now he is _tired_ and needs the boost, so he tolerates the espresso more out of necessity than anything.

“Yusuf's a genius.”

“I wouldn't have picked him if he were anything but, Ariadne.”

Ariadne sighs because Eames is really kind of brilliant when it comes to these things and everyone who's ever known him knows it's best not to feed his ego, but oftentimes it's unavoidable. Eames has constructed this wonderful little life for himself in which everything he says to do works out and he gets what he wants all the time and, frankly, he thinks himself quite clever for it.

Alright, so his definition of _everything_ might be a little different from the rest of the world's. _Almost_ everything is more accurate, but he prefers not to think about that.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, he managed to engineer a new compound that'll be pretty perfect for our needs. It's transmitted through the air rather than intravenously and has a delayed reaction time. Since it's virtually impossible to get the mark alone, especially since tomorrow he'll be smack-dab in the middle of the party, we'll feed the Somnacin through the vents and the delay will give us time to make sure we haven't missed anyone. It works pretty slowly, so everyone should have time to find a seat before they pass out.”

“Won't they be suspicious when they all wake up later?” Arthur asks incredulously. He's never been eager to experiment with the Somnacin so every new iteration makes him twitchy.

“Darling, have you _seen_ how much alcohol they have at these things? They'll be too smashed to think anything of it," Eames says, the words tumbling out in the careless fashion that has become expected of him.

Arthur's mouth remains in a neutral straight line, but his brow is marked with worry.

“So we just... put everyone under and snatch the mark out from under their noses?”

“Precisely,” Ariadne says, looking pleased with herself.

“We won't be able to control the dosage. You know that weight affects how long everyone's under.”

“We won't have to. We'll be in and out before it expires on even the tiniest of the guests.”

“But—”

“ _I_ like it,” Eames interjects, finishing off his coffee. “Different from the usual procedure, but I could use the change. It all gets a mite too boring to continue with if you're not careful.”

Arthur looks none too happy, but he has the good grace to keep his mouth shut. In truth, he's got a reason to be irritated—there are simpler ways to do what they're doing, but Eames is bored and Ariadne doesn't know any better—but Eames won't validate his grumpiness. That would do nothing for the case he's trying to make against Arthur's uptight nature.

“Everything's ready to go then, I suppose,” Eames says, sounding like he really couldn't be bothered but is checking out of formality. They've already planned out the job, so getting the chemicals was the last bit before they were ready to go. The whole thing should be a cakewalk, minus the unusual circumstances in actually getting the mark to a secluded location, but even that's easy—it's more about excitement than difficulty.

“We'll meet back here at four pm tomorrow. Make sure you dress to fit the occasion, because they won't admit you otherwise.” Arthur gives Eames a pointed look, which Eames takes to be an attack on his personal style. He'll have to act wounded about that later when he's got the time.

“Right-o. See you then,” Eames replies, looking at Ariadne to make her feel included. He gets up easily and tosses his coffee cup in the trash can they'd dragged into the empty warehouse when they first arrived, collecting his various papers and wishing he were somewhere south of the equator enjoying a fruity alcoholic beverage. Madrid is hot, sure, but it's the wrong _kind_ of hot.

“See you.” Ariadne gives him a smile before heading off, bracing herself against the wind as she opens the door to the outside.

“You're an ass,” Arthur says matter-of-factly when she's gone.

“My old wounds still smart, darling. No need to add new ones so soon, mm?” Eames gives him a woebegone look as they fall in step, Arthur grabbing his umbrella (because he would be sensible enough to bring one) and Eames frowning at the whipping wind he's about to face.

“If this stupidly complicated scheme of yours doesn't work, trust I'll be breaking out the lime juice,” Arthur quips, but there's an easy rhythm to it that Eames knows means he isn't actually annoyed. Arthur's bored too, he can tell, and a break from the routine will do his soul good. That's probably why the Point Man hasn't stopped the whole thing and revealed the dozens of simpler plans he's undoubtedly got tucked in his back pocket.

“It will.” Eames gives him a cocky half-smile, the one he knows Arthur hates, and chuckles as the man rolls his eyes and stomps out into the foul wetness of summer.


	2. St. Petersburg

Arthur is dangerous.

It's easy for that to slip out of mind in a world where one might dodge a dozen bullets one second and waltz at a fancy soirée the next, that everyone involved in the dreamshare business is lethal. All of one's associates kind of blend together into a big blur of violent and thus one forgets to be wary of the individuals.

Arthur, however, is impossible to forget.

Eames has seen it before, seen when Arthur truly goes into survival mode. His eyes, already very focused on a bad day, go sharp and crystalline; his muscles tense like springs, like he's just waiting for his chance to take you out and get it all over with.

He is a cat waiting for his prey, the sinew and muscle rippling beneath his skin, dying to get put to use. He's bone and angles, some intangible, beautiful thing, and when he knows he's winning his mood absolutely _soars_ and he gets this wonderful wicked smile on his face that he tries to suppress but can't. Eames can hear it, too, hear it in the short commands he gives or the wet voice by his ear: _“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”_

Arthur has gotten better at hiding these things, but Eames knows them so well that he can see them even when no one else can. They're ingrained in his mind, memorized, and every time Arthur dispatches a target and looks at him he _knows,_ he knows the high Arthur gets from the fight, and Arthur knows he knows, and there's something a little beautiful and a lot sexy about it.

The first (and last) time they were together was in St. Petersburg. The Russian cold bit their cheeks and numbed their fingers as they walked, drunk on alcohol and high on success. The hotel they eventually settled on was dingy and crummy and a little too cold, the kind of place that made people like Arthur bristle, but he just smiled and pulled Eames close and let his head fall to the side, let Eames' tongue ravage the smooth and delicate skin there, and when Eames' breathing grew as heavy and as labored as his own he parted his lips and uttered a sentence the Forger had been dying to hear since they met in Munich four years before:

“ _Fuck me, Mr. Eames.”_

It was a command, not a request, like every other time Arthur had used “Mister” in the context of Eames' name. Arthur looked at him with eyes full of lust and he said it again, authoritatively, and Eames pressed his lips to the Point Man's and ground their hips together and did as he was told.

“ _Yes.”_ The word was uttered like a prayer. Like the blasphemers they were they cursed and spat and said His name in vain many, many times, savoring each filthy word, yet throwing all of them away like trash. The bed creaked and had lumps and there were probably many Mystery Stains adorning it beneath its thankfully clean sheets, but neither could muster up a damn to give between them. Eames moved and Arthur moved and both cried out in equal amounts, loud and desperate and wonderfully embarrassing.

Eames fell asleep with his arms around Arthur and woke up with those same arms around a pillow. It was cold, as per usual, and he was sore. Somewhere in the night the meager fire they'd poked into life had gone out, leaving nothing but the smoldering skeleton of a log.

“Arthur?” he'd called lazily, to no answer. He'd sat up and for a moment hoped Arthur was in the bathroom, but he knew that wasn't true. He was alone. Used and tossed aside like a sex toy.

 _It wasn't meant to be personal,_ he'd thought as he dressed that morning, but Arthur's absence still stung him like a slap to the face. It faded away to a dull ache, but it was there. Things returned to normal, but the injury his heart had sustained that night was like a broken bone improperly set: the pain would ebb with time, he knew that, but sooner or later he was going to have to break it again and set it straight.

Arthur never spoke of that night again. He was all business again, crisp and cold and quiet, and Eames knew what that meant.

He could have whatever else he wanted, but he couldn't have Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Made an adjustment to this chapter due to a reader pointing out something very silly I did that I wasn't even thinking about. xD


	3. Somewhere Between Cairo and Cape Town

The journey that follows is a glorious one, one that leaves Eames trudging through the invisible muck of his own fucking  _feelings_ while Arthur dances in circles around him, light, ethereal, his expression strategically unreadable and painfully dissociated. It soon becomes clear that Eames is suffering from an overflow of all the caring Arthur will have none of—and, of course, the Forger has always been terribly romantic, though he doesn't like to admit it, and knows this is a trap he cannot flee from or escape.

_Damned by my own heart,_ he thinks as the sweat beads along Arthur's hairline somewhere between Cairo and Cape Town, already soaked through to the bone with sweat and exhaustion and any number of bacteria waiting to bloom into something quite grotesque. Three months after Madrid and five after St. Petersburg they've become a duo of sort-of art forgers, using the PASIV mostly to work on painting techniques without wasting time and money, two valuable and limited resources. It's not ideal but it works, especially since Dom is gone now and neither of them really trusts anyone else. There's Ariadne, of course, but she's still somewhat green, and Yusuf has always got something a bit too crazy stirring beneath his mop of unruly black hair to ever be truly reliable.

If he's honest with himself, the proximity hurts.

Eames generally prides himself on his powers of compartmentalization—how else is he supposed to become other people with such ease?—but this longing is something he cannot control, cannot block out. There he'll be, dying, while Arthur sits there and does research and berates him for slacking, and he's so fucking  _cool_ about the whole thing that Eames kind of wants to punch him in the face.

Because really, who can say Arthur doesn't deserve to get socked in the jaw every once in a while?


	4. Casablanca

There are times when he thinks Arthur will open up.

They're little moments, really, split-second things; Arthur's mouth will tremble open, or his eyes will grow soft, or he'll let Eames linger in his personal space for a tiny bit longer than usual, and Eames feels as if Arthur wants something, but forbids himself from having it, and Eames sometimes wonders hopefully if it's him.

Then it's over. Then whatever little fraction of a fuck Arthur seemed to give would be gone, filed away in the neat little cabinet marked “mistakes” in the very back of his mind, never to be seen again—not in the same way, anyway. That would just be too obvious.

Despite how closely intertwined their means of making money are, they have very little personal time together. Sure, they'll whittle away hour after hour frowning over sheafs of paper with text in Times New Roman or Arial or—God forbid—Comic Sans, poring seriously over the small, authoritative emblems and official names that sign the sheafs of paper, but they can't be bothered to go out for coffee. Ever. Arthur is all practicality and function and perpetually anticipatory umbrellas, but never smiles or laughter or careless traipses down the main street. Sometimes he is the cat, menacing and cruel and unreal, but he never lets loose whatever it was he'd uncaged that night in St. Petersburg, and all Eames can do is ask himself  _why?_

On one of the rare occasions wherein they have to spend actual, non-business time together occurs in Casablanca on a job that requires their main skills rather than the ones they're using because it's convenient. The city is bustling and well-loved and they have to share a hotel room—a concept to which they are certainly not new—and Arthur is, as usual, hunched over the desk most hotels provide that sane people never use because they're too busy going on a fucking vacation to do so.

“Whatsoever parteth the hoof and is cloven-footed and cheweth the cud among the beasts, that shall ye eat. Nevertheless these shall ye not eat, of those that chew the cud or of those that divide the hoof: the camel, because he cheweth the cud but divideth not the hoof, he is unclean unto you; and the coney, because he cheweth the cud but divideth not the hoof, he is unclean unto you; and the hare, because he cheweth the cud but divideth not the hoof, he is unclean unto you; and the swine, though he divide the hoof and is cloven-footed, yet he cheweth not the cud, he is unclean to you. Of their flesh shall ye not eat, and their carcass shall ye not touch; they are un—”

“Eames.”

Eames looks up from the courtesy Bible—it's not in English, but translating it is short work, especially given that he knows the material quite well from quoting it strategically whilst conning someone—to find Arthur looking daggers in his direction.

“Yes?” The expression he shoots back is perfectly, horrendously innocent.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?”

“It looks like you're being useless is what. Come over here and read some of these notes I've been compiling or something, something _useful._ ”

Eames puts on an appalled facade, but he sets the Bible down and gets up anyway. Drawing close to Arthur, he taps his fingers against the desk and waits for the avalanche of text that will inevitably be proffered.

“You work too hard, darling,” he murmurs, catching Arthur's wrist delicately when he tries to hand the aforementioned text walls over. It just _happens._ He doesn't mean to, but the hole in his chest where his heart was at some point won't let him do anything else. His free hand grabs the file and tosses it to the side and, ignoring Arthur's “Hey!” of protest, Eames pulls him from the chair and holds him close, impossibly close, closer than they've been for months even though they've jostled against eachother in uncomfortable airplane seats too many times to count, and there's something messy and horribly raw to it and Eames _loves_ it.

“Hey,” Arthur breathes again, looking halfway between upset and seduced.

“Take the day off,” Eames says. The way they're standing is far too intimate, but Eames has imagined their bodies pressing together too many times for it to be unnatural.

Arthur is withdrawing. The weakness in his eyes is disappearing slowly, and for a moment Eames feels panic surge through his chest at the thought of losing another chance, a chance to set the bone properly and make things right.

“Do you remember St. Petersburg?” Eames asks breathlessly. They've melted into eachother a little and they move in little circles, dancing to silent music.

“The time when you got shot in the leg or when we got drunk?”

“The latter.”

“What about it?” Arthur's voice isn't cold, just surprised.

This is the hard part, the part that he knows will change everything. He kind of doesn't want to know what Arthur will say, because he knows if Arthur says what he thinks he'll say, it'll all be over. A man can live many ways and under many different conditions, but these are trials Eames is no longer strong enough to undergo.

“Why didn't you stay?” His voice breaks in the middle and he knows it's absurd, the whole thing is completely horrid and silly and Eames is messing things up, but he can't bear the weight of not knowing anymore.

“Oh, Eames, I—”

“You _what?”_

“I was...”

Eames' eyes search Arthur's wildly, seeing the vulnerability pool back into them only making him more determined to find answers.

“You were?”

“I don't know,” Arthur huffs finally, looking away. Eames makes a soft, sad sound and clutches Arthur's hands, rubbing at the knuckles, because he knows that's not the whole story, not the story Arthur wants to tell.

“Why won't you just tell me what's wrong?” The way Arthur reacts confirms Eames' suspicions: there is so much Arthur hasn't said, and Eames wants to hear every word.

Something inside Arthur seems to crumple and break. The hard line of his mouth goes soft and he takes a deep breath of air, letting himself collapse into Eames' arms. They stand there for a long moment in some sort of strange twilight, one neither of them quite knows how to handle, and then Arthur's looking up and the look turns into a kiss and one kiss turns into two and three and four, and their musicless dance turns into a slow river meandering to the bed, all touch and kiss and small, short breaths.

This time is different. Each inch of skin is an adventure, a treasure to protect, and there's no drunken haze to distract them, only their little bubble of perfect inside two very imperfect lives. Arthur is a cat, but he's not always predatory: here his eyelashes flutter and his cheeks are pink, with none of the hard edges Eames has come to love so much. It's different, but he loves it just the same, and he knows it's very silly of him to be so head-over-heels for a man whose biting insults cannot be counted on any number of Eames' appendages, but he'd resigned himself to his fate a long time ago.

Arthur has now tretched himself across the bed carelessly, his fingers tracing along one of Eames' tattoos, and Eames' own fingers are tangled in the thick brown hair he's managed to dishevel quite spectacularly. He knows Arthur knows why he didn't stay in St. Petersburg, and it's something he'd quite like to know, but that's a conversation to be saved for a time when neither of them is coated in the other's seed in any capacity.

“I'm staying this time,” Arthur says in hushed tones, like it's a secret he has to guard carefully.

Eames believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why Biblical stuff is permeating this story. On the one hand it fits, but on the other I'm scratching my head at myself and saying "what are you doing?" Here I think I should mention I do not know much about religion, nor do I claim to, so if I screw anything up, please don't yell at me too much. I'm trying my best. Obviously, any religious opinions stated within the story are not necessarily my own, nor should they be treated very seriously. I'm mostly writing and shaking my head at myself and writing again.


	5. Rio de Janeiro

“What about Rio?”

The question had been more hypothetical than anything; he hadn't expected it to actually _happen._ Yet here he is, suitcase in one hand and Arthur's cool fingers in the other, looking out on a decidedly tropical vista. They dodge cars with squealing engines and overloaded bicycles laden with mystery packages and sunburned tourists with bright shirts not unlike Eames' own. Arthur hates Eames' outfit, of course, but that's to be expected, and so they focus less on that and more on finding the hotel. For some terribly asinine reason they've decided to walk instead of taking a cab and thus find themselves sidling along the edge of an expansive beach, sparse luggage still in tow.

The hotel, which they eventually find, is beach front and beautiful. Everything is covered in a fine layer of sand, it seems, even the inside of their suite, but that little detail is made up for by the view. The air conditioning is a blessing and Eames finds himself sucking in large, grateful breaths, discarding the luggage by the door in favor of flinging himself onto the bed. Arthur's phone rings and he goes on the balcony to talk, casting Eames a martyred look as the conversation drags on.

“Dom says you have designs on my virtue,” Arthur says when the phone call is over, answering the question on Eames' lips: _did you tell him?_

“What virtue?”

Eames knows the cat, loves it. Arthur is more than he seems and he's very good at pretending he isn't.

He greets that with a grunt and lays down beside Eames, picking through the tangle of limbs to look at him face-to-face.

“I have work to do,” he says quietly, but he makes no move to get up.

“It can be done later.”

“But if I do it now I can relax later.”

“You won't. You'll just find more work to do.”

Arthur sighs because Eames already knows him too well.

“Stay here, with me. For a little while.”

“We can go on the beach at sunset and breathe in the salty air and drink synthetic things through multicolored straws,” Arthur muses, his eyes somewhere far off.

“Careful, love. You're sounding dangerously romantic.” Of all the things Arthur isn't, romantic is certainly at the top of that list. If he gets anything close to it, Eames makes sure to take note. There are times, of course, when he has this natural charm to him that replaces all the fancy words, but Eames doesn't see that very often. When that side of Arthur comes out, Eames makes sure to savor it.

Not that, of course, he doesn't savor all sides of Arthur. Even this one, this broken, tired version of himself, is gorgeous and fantastic and more than Eames ever dreamed of. It's not that he hadn't seen all of Arthur's sides before all of this, before Arthur let him in, but the fact that he has _permission_ to, that's he's openly invited to gaze upon all of Arthur's little flaws and quirks rather than noticing them in passing, that makes it special. That permission is something he can never buy or steal or swindle from someone, something he can never use his wiles to get, which makes having it all the more special.

“I've been surrounded by your bad influence for too long not to,” Arthur finally finishes, closing his eyes. Eames laughs quietly and they just lie there, breathing eachother in, until sleep takes them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know next to nothing about Rio but bucketloads about seaside hotels, so hopefully they met in the middle for something halfway believable.


	6. Singapore

Dominic Cobb is a man of many talents. He is a force to be reckoned with, and when it comes to ruining perfectly good things, you'd better duck and fucking cover. On this particular instance of screwing everything up, Eames is unable to find the nearest bomb shelter before Arthur picks up his phone, and so resigns himself to sulking on the couch until he learns the news.

Of course, news from Dom isn't always bad, but Eames has learned to expect the worst. If Dom's life were a phrase, that phrase would be “I come bearing gifts,” wherein said gifts are excruciating headaches, new enemies, and too much work for too little money.

Judging by the way Arthur's face has gone slack, Eames knows Dom's gift this time is exceptionally awful. He waits for Arthur to get off the phone before he speaks, not wanting to disrupt whatever moment they're having—they've always been close and he knows he doesn't understand the intricacies of their friendship, so he generally just keeps his mouth shut about it.

“Is something the matter?” he asks simply, his gaze expectant.

Arthur takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Phillipa's in the hospital.”

It's like a punch to the gut. Sure, Eames was never as involved in her life as Arthur, but he'd watched the kid grow up, if only from afar. For a very interesting two weeks he'd even had to take care of her and the younger Cobb child (going into that experience, he wouldn't have known how to change a diaper to save his life; afterward he was a professional).

“What happened?” he replies quietly, blocking out his thoughts. Dom is undoubtedly panicking, and that will make Arthur edgy. Eames needs to be the calm one here.

“She fell down a flight of stairs and hit her head pretty hard. Cracked her skull.”

Eames feels green.

“How bad?”

“Dom didn't say. Look, can we just—”

“It'll take ten minutes to pack, darling, if that.”

Arthur sighs with relief at Eames' understanding. They don't have a job at the moment, anyway, so the most troublesome thing about the whole affair is adjusting his sleeping schedule. For Arthur he will do a lot of things, and this request is not anywhere near severe enough to refuse. They'd already traveled the world a hundred times over, so this is just another adventures.

Twenty minutes and two phone calls later and they're off to the airport, dashing off to rescue Dom from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll all make sense eventually... but don't hold me to that. xD


	7. Los Angeles

So it is that Eames and Arthur end up living together.

Alright, so that's a bit silly to say, seeing as they spent a majority of their time together already, but there's a difference between living out of suitcases in various hotels and picking a space and saying “this will be our space.”

Their particular space is a smallish flat in Los Angeles, close enough that Dom can come crying when he needs to but far enough that he'll realize when he doesn't actually need to _before_ he bothers them. Arthur is a creature of habit and efficiency, so it's a surprise that Eames is the one who has to force the idea on him.

“It's impractical, darling,” he'd said, his eyebrows still raised from Arthur's initial refusal. “We're going to be here for a while. Staying in a hotel for weeks on end is just being wasteful.” Not to mention the fact that hotel mattresses were starting to drive him batty.  
Arthur had hemmed and hawed on the issue for an excessive amount of time before finally giving in, albeit reluctantly. There hadn't been much to do, just a bit of looking about and a few signatures and the transportation of two suitcases and they were moved in. It's sparse, bearing only what little furniture they could procure so quickly, but it's better than the eternity of hotel rooms that had once loomed ahead of them.

Arthur is terribly uneasy about the whole thing, Eames finds. There's something in his eyes and Eames can't help but feel it's the wall that used to be erected between them, except... different. Arthur's afraid of something, but he doesn't know what. He wants desperately to find out, of course, but instead he says nothing on the matter, waits for the day to come when Arthur will actually tell him what's bugging him instead of pretending there's nothing on his mind.

It doesn't.


	8. Los Angeles

Their arrangement lasts two months. Most of that time is spent patting Dom on the back and coming over for somewhat pointless dinners, watching Dom worry and pretend everything's alright when really, they're all in mutual agreement that the whole thing sucks so why is he trying so valiantly to hide it? It's an effort Eames appreciates to some extent, though, because if Dom lets himself get freaked out, there's really no stopping him.

As the weeks pass, Eames notices a shift in Arthur. First he was very edgy and ill-at-ease, but eventually the tightness in his shoulders starts to let up, the flinty look in his eye softens. The flat becomes a home, if only a temporary one, and they coexist somewhat smoothly—they both have their quirks, of course, but nothing they can't get over. It makes Eames wonder why Arthur had been so resistant in the first place.

The one thing he notices is that Arthur goes out a lot. He'd always gone out before, when they were in hotels, of course, but now they haven't been taking any jobs so it doesn't really make sense.

_He can work solo if he likes,_ he resigns himself to thinking, but he can't help but feel a little put out. He's not entitled to knowing anything about Arthur's personal life, he knows that, but that won't stop him from wanting to.

When Phillipa finally wakes up and gets to go back home with Dom, it's like a giant breath of air they've been holding for weeks on end is released. Arthur relaxes,  _actually_ relaxes, and when Eames takes him into his arms one day and pulls him onto the sofa, he doesn't fuss.

“We could be done with it, you know,” Eames says, his voice muffled as he nuzzles Arthur's hair.

“Be done with what?”

“You know, the business. Dreams. Running all over the place. We could leave it all behind, settle down. Find something else to do besides forge passports and dig up dirt.”

Arthur's quiet for a moment, the only sound between them their breathing.

“Not here,” he replies, and Eames can hear the way his nose has wrinkled through his tone.

“Not here.” Eames thinks for a moment, breathing in Arthur's scent. “Paris.”

“Mm.” The cogs turn. “It would be fitting. A lot of... _this_ started there. It would be like completing a circuit, like—”

“Like putting something to rest,” Eames finishing, kissing Arthur's lips lightly when he turns just so. “So what do you say?”

Arthur thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks, and then he sighs and he smiles and he says “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that this is going somewhere.


End file.
